


23

by AdotHamburrger



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2016-01-12
Packaged: 2018-05-13 08:10:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5701234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdotHamburrger/pseuds/AdotHamburrger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alexander turns 23 at Valley Forge. John is having some less-than-platonic feelings. (They both probably are because they're gaybones for each other.) Truths and kisses are shared. Cuteness ensues. (Has been edited to fix a few typos/grammatical errors.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	23

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Delope](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5365331) by [Mira_Jade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira_Jade/pseuds/Mira_Jade). 



> Okay, so today (January 11th) is Alexander Hamilton 261st birthday. Or 259th, but I'm assuming he was born in 1755. I thought I'd use that inspiration to write a little Lams fic, canon-era, but probably hella inaccurate…sorry. It's pretty tame, but I think workaholic Alexander and exhausted, hopelessly pine-y John celebrating his birthday from their bed at Valley Forge is a cute thought. (None of this happened, probably. But I was trying to straddle the line between my desire for shameless Lams sexytimes and knowable history…perhaps I'll write more of the former in the future.) This is my first fic, and I couldn't figure out how to enable italic even though I used word…so sorry about that! Some of John's thoughts might be a bit confusing, I hope it's not too bad. Please, please comment thoughts, suggestions, critique, hopeless outpourings of love for the two dead babes here, whatever--comments make my day. THANKS TO Mira_Jade and GwendolynGrace for inspiration!! (If you haven't already, read Delope and Bedfellows-Five Times Hamilton Shared a Bed…you shan't be disappointed!!) Also, sorry Lin and sorry Chernow. You two are my heroes.

Valley Forge, January 1778

 

The applewood fire hisses and spits in its grate as John listens from the bed to the scratching of Alexander's quill. So, Hamilton had chosen to spend this night, like so many others, forgoing sleep to instead hunch over his desk with his pen and papers, determinedly scribbling away into the wee hours. A lone tallow candle casts a small pool of light over the letters heaped in front of him, flickering golden light illuminating the marble planes of his face. John burrows deeper into the covers, hyper-aware of his still-aching shoulder wound and the frozen wintry air slipping fingers in through the crack under the door. Along with the year the weather had turned, bone-cracking cold, so much so that even the heat from their small fire did not serve to drive it away. The men in camp had it worse, without clothing or shelter. John worried about the army's ability to survive until spring, he worried about himself and his increasingly dangerous feelings for his fellow aide-de-camp, he worried about the General, who’s movements grow tenser and more miserable on the daily, and right now he worried about Alexander, absorbed in his work and seemingly impervious to the chill. 

"Hamilton?"

No response.

"Hamilton?"

His friend still sat scritch-scratching away. A rumple of consternation had formed between his brows, and his hand moved faster over the paper.

"Alexander?"

The aforementioned grunted in response.

John sighed, propping himself up on his elbow, "My dear boy, do you plan to spend another restless night frozen to your desk?"

After a beat, where the quill continued to scrape away at the parchment, Hamilton answered, his voice rough from disuse.

"I must get this draft of this letter finished for General Washington by tomorrow morning."

"Is that not already the third draft?"

…

"Alex?" John waited. 

“Alexander.”  
"Alexander, the British are attacking."

Nothing.

"My hair is on fire."

Hamilton made a noncommittal "hmm" sound.

John considers saying what is actually on his mind, and has been for far too many days. Alex, dear boy, I think I'm in love with you and would greatly enjoy for us to participate in unnameable, illegal acts together. What are your feelings on sodomy? Instead, he stays his tongue and switches tactics, in part to avoid thinking of the guilty blush that sweeps through his body at the thought of…no. Alexander would surely be repulsed by advances of…those sort on John's part, and anyway, it's a sin. He had promised himself long ago that he would steadfastly resist the temptation to betray any less-than-platonic feelings towards this man (or any man ever again, for that matter.) Nevertheless, he watches the curve of Alexander's neck, his elegant-featured face clouded with thought in the golden light, and finds it hard to remember the logic of that decision. I mean, Dear God. He clears his throat.

"Suit yourself then…" He can't bring himself to say dear boy. "…I'm going to sleep. Please…Alex. Try to go to bed at some point. At least before dawn." He deliberately brings a note of lightness into his voice as he says these words. He swallows hard and takes a moment to feast his eyes on Hamilton's bent form for a little longer, trying to memorize the smooth angles of the younger aide's face. Were it not for that damn shoulder wound, he would turn on his other side, away from the desk to which he is inextricably drawn, a moth spiraling towards Hamilton's steady burning. Instead he shivers despite himself, draws the coverlet up to his chin, and snaps his eyes shut. Sleep, he knows, will not come to him any more easily to him tonight than it comes to Alexander…well, any night.

However--he doesn't know many hours later--he is struggling to open his eyes again. The fire has burned down to almost nothing--a bed of faintly glowing embers. The candle is a sputtering pool of wax. What stirred him to wakefulness was Hamilton's distantly questioning voice. 

"John?"

At the sound of his Christian name he shakes away the remnants of sleep and casts weary eyes onto the figure still seated at the desk, no longer hunched over but tilted back in his chair. Several more drafts of the Congress letters are heaped in front of him. Alexander briefly glances over his shoulder at his bleary companion. 

"John? You awake?"

"Hm?" Clearing his throat, he tries again. "Yes, I’m…awake. What is it, Alexander?"

"Did you say something a few minutes ago? About the British attacking?” Laurens rolls his eyes at Hamilton’s backside. Minutes?

“’Twas nothing. Just trying to get your attention.”

“Oh.” A beat. “D’you know what day is it?"

John squints hard, thinking. His "Um…January eleventh?" Overlaps with Hamilton's "Is it the eleventh?" 

"Ah." Alexander stands creakily, stretching arms over his head, his slender form lengthening until he drops his arms to his side again and pauses, back still turned. "Well.” He blows out the guttering candle and wheels around. “Happy birthday to me." In the faint orange glowering from the dying fireplace John can see Hamilton traveling around the foot of his bed.

"It's your birthday?"

"Indeed. “ He has reached the opposite side of John’s bed. “Mind if I join you?" The coverlet is already lifting up, a blast of cold air whooshing up John's back as Hamilton clambers in right next to him and tightens the quilt over the two of them, safely ensconcing himself in the bubble of warmth. (Hamilton had been sharing John's cot for the past week. John thought it was probably deemed ideal by his comrade as much for the added warmth as the fact that every inch of Alexander's own pallet was covered in a growing pile of untidy papers.) John almost doesn't mind it, although he finds it harder to sleep with Hamilton's space-heater warmth reflecting off his back. It's not unpleasant, but he finds it harder to stop his body's natural responses in such close proximity. It tends to breed as much anxiety as pleasure. Even now, he is being driven to distraction as Alexander flops down onto the pillow and presses himself flush to John's backside, draping his free arm over Laurens's chest. Casual. John tries to think. Friendly. PLATONIC.  
He is quickly pulled away from over-thinking the arm situation when Alexander's icy bare feet collide with his calves. He draws in a sharp breath. 

"Jesus, Alex." 

Alexander only chuckles jovially. "Sorry. The warming pan went out." 

"It's…fine." But he kicks his friend for good measure. "Wear socks next time, you madman." In response, Alexander only laughs and presses his forehead into the the curve of John's neck. His warm breath stirs the top of his spine into a tingling goddamn mess. John suddenly finds it hard to breathe.

"This is the only time of year I miss the Caribbean." There is deliberate levity in Alexander's tone, guarding something darker, a stirred pot of complex emotions, a resurgence of the unplaceable accent he takes such pains to conceal. 

"I can relate. South Carolina is also…much warmer this time of year. But not so warm as the sugar islands, I can only imagine."

Alexander does not respond for a while. When he does, it is muffled by John's shirt. "Too narrow. Turn over." 

John panics, all-too aware of the warmth in his groin, the unintentional response to Hamilton's closeness. His voice is strained when he replies

"Can't. Shoulder…wound."

Hamilton makes an understanding grunt. "Of course, I'd forgotten. Here." To John's horror he sits up and begins to awkwardly clamber over John's curled form. He flops down in front of Laurens, who does his best to surreptitiously make room by angling his hips as far away from Alexander as possible. For added protection he casually places an arm in front of the problem area. They are facing each other, noses nearly touching. Hamilton says nothing, simply breathes in and out, lips parted, eyes locked on John's.

"…Happy birthday, Alexander."

"Is that better?"

"Is…what…better?"

"This position provides more warmth, does it not?"

"Yes…" John begins carefully, resigned to the fact that that added warmth travels exactly where he does not want it to. "I suppose it is." A pause. He keeps his voice light when he adds, "If you don't mind my asking…how old are you turning?"

The fire is gone, and in the darkness it is hard to read Alexander's expression. He seems to make a deliberate decision when he says, "Twenty-one." He lets out a soft, quick breath "…Or twenty-three, depending on whether you favor the mathematical truth or the…generally accepted truth…among my fellow collegians, as it were." 

John keeps his eyes on Alexander's irises, illuminated by the faint moonlight streaming in through the leaded glass window. It casts and pearly glow across his broad forehead and fluttering lashes and fixed stare. In this light, at this hour, he seems to transcend the mortal world, glowing with a soft light. 

"What's the truth? The…non-collegian…truth."

There is a drawn out silence. Deliberation. “Twenty-three." Ah. So Alexander didn't want to stand out as old among his King's College classmates. His lids are downcast, like he's embarrassed, but there is a fluid calm imbuing his features. Perhaps he's drifting off. Or gazing at John's mouth. John dearly hopes the latter, but then thinks better of it. Or pushes the hope aside. He counts Alexander's breaths instead, the steady inhalations begun more than two decades ago beneath the Caribbean sky. John is almost sure he has fallen asleep when Hamilton punctuates the silence again.

"Just before my mother died…that is, I was able to spend my thirteenth birthday with her." A sharp exhalation. "She was already…ill. But…it wasn't deadly, not then." Alexander's eyes rove across John's for a hint of understanding. "She…ah…saved up enough money to give me a proper celebration. Neither James nor I had had a real birthday since my father…engaged in his business ventures…elsewhere…" Hamilton swallowed, and John fought the urge to rest a hand on the struggling fellow's arm. After a moment careful decision Hamilton seemed to come to, and his trademark ease was back as he continued, "She made a bag pudding--must've saved for a long time to buy the flour and suet, as we, like so many other families of…modest means forewent such extravagancies at Christmasttime. And she bought me a carved toy soldier from the shop beneath the apartment. I think she would have preferred to purchase another book for me, but…there were very few bookshops on St. Croix." 

John knows what it is like to lose one's mother. "Your mother sounds like a…gentlewoman. Truly."

Hamilton’s voice is knotted when he replies. "Indeed. I don't think of her that often. Often enough. But she did the best she could in raising me, for the most part. I am…thankful providence saw fit to provide us with that time." Alexander's throat bobs up and down, working through the lump for a few moments, gathering composure, before his eyes flicker back up to John's. 

“I am honored that you deem me…fit. To tell me your real age.” 

Alexander smiles suddenly, his teeth a flash of white in the darkness, and laughs shakily.

"Laurens, you must be the only man who's ever managed to weasel such a confession out of me. And on my birthday! I'm appalled." His eyes are bright, a quick film of joviality masking the pain, and John tries to remain unbothered by Alexander's sudden reversion to surnames. It is suitably dark, and they are wedged together in a too-small bed, safely within the hours deemed late (or early) enough for heartfelt confessions and emotional outbursts and almost adolescent awkwardness. He reaches over and gives Hamilton's hand a reassuring squeeze and does not say everything he could, any utterances of comfort are sure to be met with distance, and Alexander must know that John knows. He must.  
He is suddenly aware of Alexander's slowed breathing. He glances up. 

"John…" There it is. "You must know that it is an understatement when I say I…greatly…enjoy your company. That is…I quite…like…you."

In response, John leans forward and plants what he hopes is a suitably platonic kiss on Alexander's mouth. Just this once, he thinks. One suitably platonic kiss that lasts only slightly longer than most suitably platonic kisses exchanged between comrades. Lafayette does it, yes? He pulls away. "Happy birthday, Alexander." He cannot tell if Alex's pupils are violently dilated from adjustment to the darkness or something else. John is sure his pupils look the same way. Hamilton's voice is strained when he says, softly, 

"That won't do." 

John panics. He has overstepped his boundaries. He has broken everything he has built between the two of them, every semblance of normalcy, every pretense of completely friendly affection. He is about to open his mouth to apologize when his nervous lips are stopped by another kiss, this time delivered by the other man. It lasts much, much longer this time. It is a promise. Months, centuries, eons—seconds later—Alexander pulls away and brushes his thumb across John's cheek. "That's better." He whispers. His eyes are still warmly searching, hungry, almost regretful, pupils blown to the width of cannonballs. John grins despite himself, and they both chuckle a little nervously, a sound soft enough for the night. Alexander smiles wide, eyes glimmering. They meet each other in the middle this time for another gentle press of the lips. This one is a gift. When they untangle their lips a small laugh burbles out.

"Happy birthday to me." 

John struggles past the heat blooming in his chest, heart beating loud enough to wake all of Valley Forge. 

“Happy birthday to you.”

They do not touch again in so intimate a manner, not that night. The promise, however, lingers. We have the whole war ahead of us. Instead Alexander nestles his head closer to John’s carnival-drum heart. Instead they link hands and watch one another sleep fitfully until a cold January dawn pinkens through frost-coated windows. The night is not the least bit cold anymore.


End file.
